Early this morning, Vic Monchego challenged me in the comments section of my injured post to write a poem over at his blog, Vic Monchego's Episodes. The rules were simple (posted here): using the photo posted as inspiration, and including the words liver, valley, sister, breach, burn, idle, fake, victim, empire, coquettish, & rain, write a poem or short story in less than 150 words.
I don't know these guys are, but they posted my entry late today. Read it here, specifically, but it may be best to just go the main page, find the original rules and photo on April 25, 2007, then scroll up to read the other cool entries.
Well my injury (more on that later) hasn't impaired my ability to type. So, taking advantage of BillyBlog's most prolific month ever (this will be post #83, double that of last April), here are some links to send you out.
Good news for Warren Zevon fans (of which I am one). There's a new book, and a new double-disc commemorating his life. The New York Times review of the book here.
And the disc? Early, uncollected, unissued, rare tracks on Preludes. Click link to read the review on Amazon describing how this record was made.
In the Fall of 2001, I attended a tribute reading at Cooper Union, billed as
A Tribute to Hayden Carruth in Honor of his 80th Birthday at Cooper Union, The Great Hall with Adrienne Rich, Galway Kinnell, Grace Paley, Jean Valentine, Sam Hamill, David Budbill, Marilyn Hacker, Ellen Bryant Voigt and Hayden Carruth. This event was made possible by the Lannan Foundation. Co-sponsored with Copper Canyon Press, the NYU Creative Writing Program, YMCA National Writer's Voice, The Poetry Society of America, and The Academy of American Poets - October 17
It was a wonderful event co-sponsored by Poet's House. Carruth is one of the more beloved lions of the poetry world, and has an impressive biography to back up the much-deserved respect he has earned. At that reading, three-and-a-half years ago, Cooper Union was packed. It was a star-studded affair and there was much adulation heaped upon Mr. Carruth, and deservedly so.
Well, you know me by now: multiple-poet event, I was in reading and signing heaven. I also had two friends along to assist. There's a significant gap in my jounral so I am relying only on memory here. I believe Adrienne Rich did not make it, or left shortly afterwards. The line for Carruth, perched magisterially on the stage, grasping an ornate walking stick, was lengthy. His eighty years had slowed his movement and it did not look good for a signing. We were eventually told that he had to get to his birthday dinner, thank you for coming, etc., etc.
So despite getting autographs from several of the poets that evening, I was left with a gaping chasm in my Signing Satisfaction Index. The big fish, the man of the hour, the reclusive Hayden Carruth had been unattainable. And I had an awesome Poetry in Motion poster I wanted him to sign for me.
[There's a reason I saved this poster for last, it has the longest story.]
But wait, you say, the photo at the top of the post, it looks like the poster is signed. Indeed. Or sort of. Read on.
So, assuming that the 80-year old and not-getting-any-younger Carruth would not be making any return visits to the Big Apple, I resorted to my plan B, a risky venture that often pays big dividends.
I had been determined once to obtain the great Polish-born poet Czeslaw Milosz's signature in my favorite anthology A Book of Luminous Things. Problem was, he lived in Berkeley and I was on the Other Coast. He was aging and didn't make it East very often, at least not for public events. So I blindly sent my book to Berkeley, to the Department of Foreign Literature where, a secretary told me, "Professor Milosz comes in every now and again to check his mail." Goodbye book! I included a note, a return, self-addressed, postage-paid envelope, and waited.
And waited.
And waited.
Nearly a year passed and the book came back to me, boldly inscribed to me by Mr. Milosz. I was beaming. Milosz was in New York the following week for a signing. Go figure.
So, I snagged a poster tube, bought return postage, wrote a note explaining I had seen him but not managed to reach him at the birthday tribute, even dropped a pen in the tube with the poster and sent it upstate to Mr. Carruth.
And I waited. Not as long as I waited for the Milosz book. And the poster came back to me. I beamed. I unrolled the poster, there was the shaky-handed inscription:
"To Bill Cohen/with regards & best wishes/Winter Solstice 2003".
Nice, no? Except for one thing. He didn't sign the poster!
Well, he did, I guess. But his signature is not on the poster. Sure, who else would have signed it like that? Who inscribes Poetry-in-Motion posters, other than the poets? I was stunned. Then I remembered the letter:
So I have a signed letter from Mr. Carruth to go with the poster. An amusing anecdote with an interesting twist. Had the poster bore the signature of the man, I would have framed it already. But the two-part piece of memorabilia begs a different treatment, I think. I'm still trying to figure out how best to display the two together.
Anyway, the poem itself is remarkable:
Lilac Time
The winter was fierce, my dear, Snowy and blowy and cold, A heart-breaker and record-breaker, And I am feeble and old.
But now it is lilac time. Come out in the sweet warm air, Come and I'll gather flowers To put in your beautiful hair.
Let's make a bouquet of lilac For our old bedside table. Then the fragrance in the night Will make me form-i-dable.
Hayden Carruth (b. 1921)
So, dear readers, thus I bring National Poetry Month to a close. Thirty-five posters in thirty days. I hope you enjoyed the show.
This penultimate post for April on the Poetry in Motion series is a poem by Ana Castillo, the last of my framed and signed posters, hung on my office wall between Yusef Komunyakaa and Sherman Alexie.
This one is unusual in many aspects. It is by far the most colorful one and by virtue of its look, one of my favorites. It's also the only signed poster that I have for which I was not present at the signing. In fact, I never met Ms. Castilo.
My memory is a bit hazy here. I believe it was the late Winter, early Spring, some time in the 1999. I had recently seen the Hawai'i-based writer Lois-Ann Yamanaka reading at the Pratt Institute in Brooklyn. I met Lois, incidentally, initially at the Los Angeles Times Festival of Books in 1996 or 1997. We kept up a sporadic correspondence. At Pratt, two years later, Lois introduced me to her literary agent, Susan Bergholtz. Later that Spring, Ana Castillo was doing a reading in the New York City area and my schedule (Shayna had recently been born) didn't allow me to make the reading.
I was bummed because I had the poster and wanted to get it signed. I was looking at it forlornly, thinking what could have been, when I, as they say, read the fine print. At the end of the poem, in tiny wording on the poster, were the permissions: "Reprinted by permission of the author and Susan Bergholz Literary Services, New York." Bingo.
I had Ms. Bergholz' card and called her, explaining my dilemma. Would she be kind enough to let me drop the poster at her office and have Ms. Castillo sign the poster for me when she was in town for the reading. The answer was "Yes," and the rest is history.
Here's the poem:
El Chicle
for Marcel
Mi'jo and I were laughing --ha, ha, ha-- when the gum he chewed fell out of his mouth and into my hair which, after I clipped it, flew in the air, on the back of a dragonfly that dipped in the creek and was snapped fast by a turtle that reached high and swam deep.
Mi'jo wondered what happened to that gum worried that it stuck to the back of my seat and Mami will be mad when she can't get it out. Meanwhile,
the turtle in the pond that ate the dragonfly that carried the hair with the gum on its back swam South and hasn't been seen once since.
Throughout the month, for each poster I have reprinted the text of the poems as well. This has often been a matter of copying the text from the Poetry Society of America's website. The PSA is the chief sponsor of the series. I have found, however, that some of the poems archived on their site are no longer available there for viewing. This has often left me with the challenge of retyping the poem (okay, not that challenging) or finding the poem elsewhere on the web.
"El Chicle" is one of those no longer archived, so I tracked it down on Ana Castillo's website. To wit, the poem is slightly different there. Spacing is the most significant change:
El Chicle
Mi'jo and I were laughing ha,ha,ha-- when the gum he chewed fell out of his mouth and into my hair which, after I clipped it, flew into the air, on the back of a dragonfly that dipped in the creek and was snapped fast by a turtle that reached high and swam deep. Mi'jo wondered what happened to that gum worried that it stuck to the back of my seat and Mami will be mad when she can't get it out. Meanwhile, the turtle in the pond that ate the dragonfly that carried the hair with the gum swam South on Saturday and hasn't been seen once since.
Aside from form (which, in all fairness, may have been manipulated to better fit the size and art of the poster), the dedication is missing. Look at the differences of the last few lines:
Poster:
the turtle in the pond that ate the dragonfly that carried the hair with the gum on its back swam South and hasn't been seen once since.
Website (and let's assume, most recent) version:
the turtle in the pond that ate the dragonfly that carried the hair with the gum swam South on Saturday and hasn't been seen once since.
In the current version, we lose the descriptor "on its back," and gain the timestamp "on Saturday". Definite improvement, especially the addition of "Saturday", which adds to the alliterative ending of the poem.
This is one of my favorite Poetry in Motion posters. Read it carefully, because the wisdom within is truly moving. This is from theTao Te Ching (Chapter 11):
We Join Spokes Together in a Wheel
We join spokes together in a wheel, but it is the center hole that makes the wagon move.
We shape clay into a pot, but it is the emptiness inside that holds whatever we want.
We hammer wood for a house, but it is the inner space that makes it livable.
We work with being but non-being is what we use.
Lao-tzu (ca. 604-531 B.C.E.) translated by Stephen Mitchell
I have taken part, for a while now, in the blog of the Bay Ridge Jewish Center. It's a humble little blog, whose counter reflects fewer hits than I get in a week. I'm not saying I'm a big dog, some blogs get more hits in a day than I do in a month. It will be interesting to see what happens. The main contributor to the blog posted a story about the loss of kosher certification to Junior's of Brooklyn, purveyors of some of the finest cheesecake in the land. With Shavuot approaching, this has made some folk mighty verklempt. The story was even picked up by the online version of the Jerusalem Post here. Oy, gevalt!
Sticking with a Jewish theme, my poem for Professor Liviu Librescu got reposted recently over here. Even though I suspected this might happen, it's still a little breath-taking for me to see complete strangers finding inspiration from my words. I'm not Melinda Doolittling here, honest, but that initial reaction is still, wow.
And check it out, over at the Ancient One's blog, here, he appears briefly in a commercial. I never realized the Cohanim were a Native American tribe! Equally great news is the fact that googling the phrase "Ancient One, Blessed Be He" will show you Dear Old Dad's link first. Mazel Tov!
This has been quite a religious post! I am sad to say, in a sense, that the Poetry in Motion project, which has gone so well, is winding down. Three more posters to go. I must add, however, in the interest of full disclosure, that the Sandburg poster is no longer in my possession. When I heard that eldest daughter Jolee was reading Carl Sandburg in her 5th grade class, the poster was immediately donated to Mrs. Silverman at P.S. 104. She's apparently a big Sandburg fan, and Jolee has reported it is placed prominently over the door to their classroom.
The widow refuses sleep, for sleep pretends that it can bring him back. In this way, the will is set against the appetite. Even the empty hand moves to the mouth. Apart from you, I turn a corner in the city and find, for a moment, the old climate, the little blue flower everywhere.
We'll see how this goes. Got there super early and there was no line. Grabbing some reading energy in the form of pizza and Stella Artois at Singas "world-famous" pizza at the corner of 2nd Ave and East 11th.
Is it possible that, at the end of April, this will be my first reading of 2007? I think so. Had to get in one good event before National Poetry Month ended.
In 10 years, this is only my second reading at St. Mark's, which has hosted some of the most amazing readings, going all the way back to the 1950s.
My last time here was November 15, 2000, they were celebrating and reading all of Ted Berrigan's Sonnets.
Remember, folks, I go to readings with a dual purpose. First and foremost, of course, is the reading experience.
But I will be honest and admit to a second agenda. I am an avid collector of poetry books, especially anthologies, and I love getting such items signed. The more, the better. The cynic would chide me, alluding to the fact that, the more signatures, the greater the commercial value of the collectible book. However, I have an affinity for my books, and recognize that, when a writer signs a page, the value, in theory, increases. But I rarely sell my books. It's a passion that accumulates. If I were in this for the money, I'd only go to modern fiction readings, and I'd go often.
But I stray. Because of the dual nature of my interest, I tend to aim for the occasional multi-personality reading. They're significantly more interesting, and the opportunity to get autographs is multiplied by the number of readers.
The centerpiece of my collection is the complete run, in hardcover, of The Best American Poetry series (BAP). Tonight, only 2 of the poets reading are anthologized in the series. Wait, let me clarify: 2 are those that I have not had sign my books. Several have been in the BAP series, but they have already signed various volumes.
So, though I will undoubtedly rant later about what I got signed and what I missed, the event itself, the poetry of Vallejo, is immensely interesting to me.
8:05 and no sign of starting. People keep trickling in. Poets are notoriously tardy, much to the chagrin of those that are fastidious. Maybe more than 2/3 full.
Sam Shepard and Anne Waldman ae walking around together. Still trying to figure out who's who (the one drawback of the multi-participant reading).
He is an established poet, critic, and translator. The Complete Poetry of César Vallejo, A Bilingual Edition, the volume for which the reading was held to promote, is translated and edited by Eshleman. Published by the University of California, the volume has gone through its first print run of 3000 copies, and is in a second printing. I overheard Eshleman tell this to a member of the foreign press at the reception after the reading.
So after the obligatory introduction, Eshleman reads a specific introduction about Vallejo. "Come on," I thought, "bring on the poetry!"
The reading consisted of three sets with three readers each - the first two readers in each set alternated between Spanish and English versions of the same poems. The third reader read poems in English.
"La Copa Negra" - "The Black Cup" (To hear Eshleman read this, see link at end of this post. There are two non-Eshleman translations discussed here.)
"Agape" - "Agape" (English translations by Rebecca Seiferle here, or by John Knoepfle here).
All done nicely.
Next was playwright/actor Sam Shepard. Brilliantly done.
He read "Lines" (clip below)
He followed with "The Eternal Dice" (link to poem on someone's MySpace page, translator undetermined) and "Epexegesis" (hear Eshleman read this at link at end of page, or see a translation here, on a blog called First We Take Manhattan. Could be Eshleman's version, as it is a recent post. Great poem.
Section II of the reading was from the book Trilce.
Next up was Jayne Cortez, a phenomenal performance poet who I have heard read twice before. She did an okay job, but I had much higher expectations. The program said she would read Trilce LVI and LXXV, "& one other section". However, she only read the first two.
I stayed on to warm up the ink in which I drown and to listen to my alternative cavern, tactile nights, abstracted days.
The unknown shuddered in my tonsil and I creaked from an annual melancholy, solar nights, lunar days, Parisian sunsets.
And still, this very day, at nightfall, I digest the most sacred certainties, maternal nights, great-granddaughter days, bicolored, voluptuous, urgent, lovely.
And yet I arrive, I reach myself in a two-seated plane under the domestic morning and the mist which emerged eternally from an instant.
And still, even now, at the tail of the comet in which I have earned my happy and doctoral bacillus, behold that warm, listener, male earth, sun and male moon, incognito I cross the cemetery, head off to the left, splitting the grass with a pair of hendecasyllables, tombal years, infinite liters, ink, pen, bricks and pardons.
24 September 1937
The reading closed with Eshelman reading "Untitled (There are days, there comes to me...)," "The Wretched," and "Sermon on Death." He was okay, and definitely better than his introduction.
I loathe long posts. I think they can be tedious. I generally avoid them. Then there's a poetry reading. I like to be thorough. And I go off on tangents. I am who I am. Hold on for a ride. If my antics bore you, skip it.
A disclaimer for any of the poets who may chance upon this blog. I am a collector, not a dealer. The pursuit and attainment of an autograph or inscription is a cherry on top of an already delicious sundae. I may sound methodical, but that's because, like the fisherman, the more I catch, the better the experience. I can catch nothing, I will be disappointed, but at least I witnessed a reading. A fishless fisherman will complain that he didn't catch anything, but he still loved trying.
Anyway, when I got to work on Thursday, I didn't think I would be having to bother Sam Shepard. My pal Brian, in Toronto, who mentored me as a book scout and collector, is a huge Shepard fan. Alas, he e-mailed back, none of the books that he sent me in the late 1990s that I have yet to get signed for him, were Shepard books.
I have several boxes of books under my desk at work, at least a box of which is Brian's, along with the accumulations of a decade of scouting and collecting. Each box is labeled and cross-referenced on an Excel spreadsheet. I also have a Microsoft Access database of all the poets that appear in any anthology I have. Those who know me may recognize that this level of organization is entirely inconsistent with the rest of my life, but this system was founded on the trauma of coming back from a reading only to discover that I could have brought a book that I had forgotten I owned.
A pragmatist would point at that and say it is a sure sign that I have too many books. Guilty, I concede, stipulating it is a far better predicament to be in, to have too many books, as opposed to too few.
Sorry for the digression, folks. But it is back story necessary to set the stage for seeing that the poet Edward Hirsch was in a copy of The Paris Review which was in one of my boxes.
Upon locating said journal, I opened it up to see if I could find Hirsch's poem. I opened it up, instead, to an interview on theater with none other than Sam Shepard. "Well," I thought to myself, "isn't that nice!" I then realized that, of course, Shepard was not in my poet's database. I figured I'd check the rest of the box. Just in case.
This build-up is necessary to understand what I felt when, by virtue of my choice of seat in the second row, I found myself sitting directly behind Anne Waldman, Ed Hirsch, and Sam Shepard.
And it was the high premium that Brian paid with his professed jealousy of my seeing Shepard, along with the fact that this was my first encounter with the man that, when the reading had ended, I had the two books out for Shepard to sign before anyone had moved.
Another digression, dear readers: long before the birth of BillyBlog, my experiences at readings were chronicled in my journals and in e-mails to Brian and our mutual book chum Hubert. Those avenues of expression were pretty much killed by BillyBlog (although the journals are on life support, barely holding on). Thus, BillyBlog and its readers, get the benefit/burden of this aspect of personal history.
So the reading has ended and I do what I do best in these situations and politely intrude into the post-reading chitter-chatter. Shepard inscribes (boldly, as they say) Brian's book for him. And he follows with a signature in The Paris Review (Spring 1997, #142) for me, on the front page of his interview in "The Art of Theater XII". Brian had asked me to see if Shepard would be amenable to Brian sending him more books to get signed for his collection. Shepard regarded me with steely eyes and politely but chillingly told me "Don't send me any books." No prob, Sam, I thought, wouldn't know where to send 'em anyway.
Had the night ended there, I think, it would have been regarded as a success. But I had only just begun.
This was Eshleman's party, so I figured he could wait 'til last, as he was most likely to stay around the longest. I pounced on Shepard so quickly because I didn't know if he'd duck out immediately or not.
By virtue of proximity, I approached Hirsch next, having him sign his poem in The Paris Review (the same issue Shepard signed). The poem, entitled, "The Lectures on Love", had a section called "Marquis de Sade". Hirsch noted that when the poem was placed in his book, On Love, his editor cut it because he thought it "too much". The poem was also anthologized in The Best American Poetry 1998.
Next, he signed his entry in The Future Dictionary of America, a marvelous book from McSweeney's imprint, that features made-up words and definitions from an imagined American lexicon in the imaginary future. Hirsch's word was:
soracious [sohr-ay'-shus] adj. a desolate wit; intellectual humor fuelled by desperation. Our foreign policy could use a few more soracious wonks.
He also looked at the book interestedly, as he had known about it, but never seen it, a phenomenon that you would imagine to be strange, but is fairly common. He also signed his poem "Man on a Fire Escape" in the Best American Poetry 1992 (Charles Simic, ed).
I reminded Mr. Hirsch where I had met him, most notably the 2004 Dodge Poetry Festival, where he had inscribed an uncorrected proof of his first book, For the Sleepwalkers, to me. "That's right! I remember you now," Hirsch remarked, "And I offered to buy it from you!" We laughed and parted amicably.
I approached Anne Waldman and asked her if she wouldn't mind signing a couple of things. "Not at all," she replied, "I just want to get a drink first." She gestured to the door at the back of the sanctuary, which led to the Parish Hall, the large space where the reception was. She had been chatting with folks and grabbed her things, when she saw someone she needed to speak with, and switched directions. Another conversation ensued. I waited.
I'd say I waited patiently for a good five minutes for her to finish talking and walk into the next room, with me tagging behind.
She also signed her contribution in a critical survey of Gary Snyder, a book edited by Jon Halper called Gary Snyder: Dimensions of a Life.
I thanked her and explained that I had last seen her at the Ted Berrigan Sonnets reading there in 2000 and that she had signed several of her books for me. She suggested I look up a hard to find Berrigan tribute book she had edited called Nice to See You: Homage to Ted Berrigan.
I headed back to the sanctuary where I had last seen Forrest Gander. He was there speaking to a woman about a book they couldn't quite figure out the title for. When he turned his attention to me, I introduced myself and asked him to sign three books. The first was his poem "Carried Across" in The Best American Poetry 2002. He remarked that he hadn't seen any of these volumes in hardcover. I told him that I collected them and had the whole series going back to '88. He seemed impressed.
I then presented him with an anthology called Home: A Collection of Poetry and Art. He cooed over it and said (yet another example) he had never seen this anthology. As he signed his page with an excerpt from his poem "The Ark on His Shoulders," he remarked at what a beautiful collection it was. At which point, I told him I had an extra copy at home and I would send it to him if he wanted it. He told me he'd pay for it, but I insisted that wasn't necessary, that it would be a gift. He said okay, but he would send me back one of his books. "Deal," I said.
And lastly he signed his editorial page on Laura (Riding) Jackson (1901-1991) in the amazing audio anthology Poetry Speaks. "If there was one poet I would have loved to meet," he sighed, "it would have been her." I thanked him after he signed the third book and he reached into his pocket and handed me a business card. I promised to send him the book in the next few days.
Remember that, dear reader. I offered up a book when I had no obligation to do so. But I believe in karma, and I didn't need that extra copy, and I have been on the receiving end of poets' generosity in the past. Mr. Gander was a true gentleman, and a pleasure to meet.
So my sights were set, finally, on the man of the hour, Clayton Eshleman. I prepped in the sanctuary, stacking five books on my arm. Two Best American Poetry volumes (2002 above and 2005), a 1971 copy of the literary magazine Sumac, the Snyder book that Waldman had signed, and an anthology called Thus Spake the Corpse : An Exquisite Corpse Reader 1988-1998 : Volume 1, Poetry & Essays.
I considered ditching one of the books, but the Sumac was small, and I've had writers sign more for me, and the worst he could do, I thought, was refuse to sign all and just pick one or two.
Vallejo's Complete Poetry..., by the way, lists new at $49.95. And even though they discounted it for the reading at $35.00, that's still a hefty chunk 'o change. So I decided consciously that I would approach Eshleman without it.
I recognize, incidentally, that, in general, it's always good form to have the author's book at a signing. But I've been down that road and have bookcases full of poetry to prove it. This has influenced the amount of readings I attend, and also the type I attend (another reason I gravitate toward multiple-author readings, the focus is on the many, as opposed to the individual).
So I stood, devoid of anything resembling an Eshleman title, five volumes cradled in my right arm. He was standing near the wine table, dapper and smiling, talking to two people, a man and a woman. The gentleman had a notepad and a name tag identifying him as press, as part of the PEN World Voices festival (which co-sponsored this event).
I heard the interviewer apologize for arriving late. He asked a question and Eshleman sounded frustrated, "Well I spoke about it in the introduction..." They discussed whether the book would increase Vallejo's popularity in the States. Perhaps I am reading too much into it, but Eshleman looked annoyed, "Well my translation of Cesar Vallejo's The Complete Posthumous Poetrywon the National Book Award in 1979...." It was then that I saw him quickly glance over at me, standing by patiently. His eyes dropped to the books in my arms, back at my face, and then back at the interviewer. It was then that I heard him quoting how well the new Vallejo book was selling (alluded to in an earlier post).
The interviewer thanked him and walked away. Eshleman turned to me, looked at the books and I spoke, "Mr. Eshleman, these aren't your books, but . . ."
Mr. Eshleman cut me off, snapping, "If they're not my books, I'm not signing them."
"But," I protested, "they're anthologies with your poems . . ."
He didn't hear me, or he did but chose to ignore me, as he had turned his back and was striding away.
I was dumbfounded. I tried to recall if I had ever been so flatly rebuffed by a writer before. The answer: no.
I have had writers tell me they'll only sign one or two things. The writer T. Coraghessen Boyle will sign a box of books if you put them in front of him, but he will not sign proofs ("I'll sign all commercial editions, but decline only to sign advance readers' copies because those are given away free and then become objects of greed for certain sellers and collectors."), but he is totally cool about it. It is in extremely bad taste to go to a bookstore signing and not buy the book that is being promoted. But most writers will be polite in their denials, or just sign. It's easier often to scrawl one's name than deal with a pushy fan/dealer/collector who persists in their requests for signatures.
Someone told me that they tried to get Seamus Heaney to sign a journal once and he refused, as well. But, with all due respect to Mr. Eshleman, Heaney won a Nobel, and has earned the right of refusal, in my mind.
My initial reaction (not one signed item! Wah!) was that of a spoiled brat. The demonic inner voice said, "Ooh, wait 'til I blog about what a jerk Clayton Eshleman was...". But cooler heads prevail.
It's any writer's right to decline to sign books. John Irving is famous for it. Ironically, in so doing, he has inflated the value of signed copies of his books, and made collectors pursue him even more doggedly.
Perhaps the interviewer rubbed him the wrong way and he was grumpy.
And I'll fess, it is bold and arguably uncouth for me to expect a writer to sign a bunch of books that they are only a small part of, and not have the courtesy to offer up one of the writer's own books. Maybe it's a sore spot.
Maybe something else was bothering him. Maybe he's had bad experiences with book dealers/collectors before. Maybe that night. There were other collectors and dealers there, and I had devoted my time to pursuing the other writers. I may have missed an interaction in which Eshleman had words with one of my predecessors. I've seen a book collector or dealer or fan be overly aggressive with a writer, spoiling it for those people behind him in line.
There are many explanations. All viable. All excusable. I wish no ill will toward Mr. Eshleman. But I would counter the profiteering argument with the following tidbit from one of the best poetry book dealers in the country, Jett Whitehead. If you check out Whitehead's online catalog, especially the page with Eshleman's items here, one thing you'll notice is that Eshleman's titles are not running at a premium. If you were going to profit off of a poet's autograph, Eshleman is not on the "A" list of highly-collected writers.
So there you have it. I picked up and left. It was a good night, despite being rebuffed by Clayton Eshleman. I'm sure I was a blip on a rather wonderful night for the man. A cloud that passed over the full moon on a windy night. I was an afterthought before he could take two strides. Or maybe not.
But I did promise myself one thing. Next time Mr. Eshleman comes to town, I'll be there, with at least two anthologies. And maybe, just maybe, a copy of one of his own books. Just to see what happens.